FOR 75 years we’ve had Travis AFB on our hips and in our lives. It’s amazing how conditioned we have become to all the generations of transports, bombers and fighters—before and since jets—that have occupied our patch of sky. Roaring out like thunder day and night, whistling in from far-off missions, dragging their shadows over Solano cities and farms, Travis, its planes and dedicated people have long been a part of our family. And we became part of theirs. On retirement, many buy a house and make this home. Take three-star Lt. General John Gonge. He joined the Air Corps in 1942, ferried war planes all over the globe, flew the “Hump,” commanded the 22nd Air Force, served in the Pentagon. After Vietnam, Gen. Gonge was in charge of getting U.S. prisoners home. He could live wherever he wants. That’s why he’s here. And so it is with Col. Len and Sue Augustine, and Lt. Col. David and Buff Fleming. They all retired here. After serving our country at home, and in theaters of conflict, both men served our community as council members, and terms as city mayor. Buff chaired the planning commission. More officers and NCOs are their neighbors.

We hardly notice the shadows or the roar anymore. But without them, the silence would be deafening. Born early in WWII on a hardscrabble aerodrome called Ragsdale Field—until 1943—new Fairfield-Suisun Army Air Base staked a claim and raised a flag. “Ragsdale” was chosen to honor the first pilot to die in the Pacific. The U.S. War Dept. balked. Policy then was not to venerate persons. Ragsdale Street was later named for him.

In 1950, the naming policy changed after Brig. General Robert Travis died in the crash of a B-29 shortly after takeoff from the base on Aug. 5. He was one of 19 who died—12 on board, 2 volunteers and 5 base firefighters. The B-29 was part of a 15-bomber deployment at the start of the Korean Conflict. I remember that night. The sky lit up. Sirens wailed.

In the 1960s, the Travis PIO called: Air Force One was on final to the base. President Lyndon Johnson was coming in to visit the wounded in David Grant Hospital. I grabbed a camera and raced out. Media buses followed LBJ to David Grant. We couldn’t go in, but after a few minutes he strode out, pausing next to a vet in a wheelchair. LBJ pulled out a pen with a Presidential seal and handed it to the vet. “You write to me, hear?” he said. The vet replied, “Sir, if you don’t get me home soon, I’ll surely write.” LBJ bolted upright and raced to the ramp. Air Force One was gone by the time we got there.

We shared solemn moments, when C-141 Starlifters brought flag-draped caskets home. Hearses lined up on one side of the ramp. It was hard to breathe. And there were joyful moments, when liberated prisoners of war ran from the rescue angels into their families’ arms. In 1949, for 9 years Travis was a major Strategic Air Command bomber base, home to B-29s, six-engine B-36 behemoths and, in time, awesome B-52 Stratofortresses. Even from a distance, visuals of the monsters on the ramp are still vivid. NIKE missiles were brought in for a line of defense, to protect the base. Launchers were staged around Travis. At times, they were exercised. Watching an array of missiles rise up, cocked and loaded, on Hay Rd. still seems surreal.

Between crises, Travis opened the gates to the public, and flew civic leaders on far-flung trips for a closer look at Air Force operations. In 1973, I parlayed an all-reserve C-141 flight to supply Pacific bases. A layover in Honolulu, landing at Canton Island, a donut-shaped atoll with a runway on one side. Blowholes gushed over us as we landed. We dropped off 7,100 pounds of frozen meat, delivered a paint truck, then off to supply a base in Pago-Pago. Reservists were on our crew. No weekend warriors they; all real pros.

This is Travis’ 75th year. It’s been a helluva ride. There are celebrations, as there should be. But to those of us who have been here since the very beginning, celebrating Travis is an everyday thing.